Grey Sleep
by GooseFeathers
Summary: Set sometime in the future, this is merely a story of Tristan and Rory
1. Prologue

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Disclaimer: Tristan and Rory are not mine, anything related to the Gilmore-Girls universe is a construct of Amy Sherman-Palladino's mind. I just thought I'd have a bit of fun with it, zat eez all.

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PROLOGUE

_Sometimes I think I do not sleep at night. Sometimes I know I don't. Either way though, I wake up tired and I face the world tired, and then I come home tired. To what end? I don't know. Maybe because those single nights of perfect slumber, found when I am at the very end of my strength, are worth it. I do not lie awake for hours on those nights, I do not dream. There is only myself, only myself in a darkened room, and then there is nothing till morning._

***

They usually sat at the same table, the one in the corner. They used to be a pretty happy couple, but a couple of months after they first began coming, things started going downhill. Tonight they came in angry, and I can bet they'll be leaving separately. The woman isn't helping matters much. Her companion is whispering things to her in the sort of controlled way which indicates emotional panic. She isn't listening though, she's drumming her fingers on the table. I smile to myself as I watch them, because I know exactly what is running through the woman's head. She is wondering if I am here, hoping so, almost eager to see me. Her eyes dart round the room, as her companion becomes angrier and his whispers to her louder.

"I know you've been seeing someone else!" The statement is loud enough for me to hear. Standing at the bar I move back a little, into the shadows.

Now the women's attention is fixed directly on the man opposite her. Her eyes widen.

"Paul, honey, how could you think...Would I do something like that?"

She's good at deception, but her companion is angry, and anger can break down trust and belief faster than anything I know of.

"Don't give me that Vicky! What kind of fool do you take me for?! Just stop lying to me, for goodness sake!" 

It's sad in a way, because I can hear something other than anger in is voice. He's actually hurt. Yet Vicky is probably deaf to that hurt. She sees only what she wants, a jealous man, shouting at her from somewhere very far away. In Vicky's mind she has been wronged, she believes she has been stuck in a boring relationship and she wants out. In other words, Vicky is a fool. If she leaves Paul tonight, she'll be a very lonely woman. She doesn't realize that the chances of her ever seeing me again are nil. 

That's the trick with women, listen to them and they'll think you care. It's a funny thing, but it works every time. Yeah, everybody wants someone to bitch to and if you take the time to listen, nine times out of ten a woman will let her defences crumble, completely. Then you're free to move right in, and when you're done, move right along. It would almost be laughable, if it weren't so pathetic. 

I've seen this scene replayed a thousand times, I can almost predict what will happen next. She'll look at him, defiantly, and admit the truth. She'll say something in that harsh voice of hers, and rip his heart in two. Then he'll stand up, and there will be tears in his eyes; but she won't see them. He'll say something to her, very soft, very low, because there is a break in his voice; but she won't hear it. He will hold out a hand, begging, "Darling, darling, please reconsider" but she won't take it. So he'll walk away, because he has no other choice, onto a busy street where dusk is falling. He won't notice people bustling by him, he won't notice anything, because his world has fallen in. I'd feel almost guilty, if I didn't think him better off without her. She'd probably betray him sooner or later, and if it happened later on, like if they were married, it would probably hurt more. 

Don't get me wrong, I'm not trying to excuse myself. I know I'm a jerk, in fact, I think I define the word. I'm only stating the truth, which is, that if someone is willing to cheat on their partner with me, they'd be willing to do it with someone else at a later time, even if I'd never been in the picture! You might say my looks have something to do with it, but the fact is that if somebody wants to cheat they'll do it regardless. I know it's a lousy way to live, but I'm a lousy sort of guy. My own parents despise me, what can I say? Careful now, don't feel too sorry for me, if you'll step a little closer you'll see that I have a particularly devilish gleam in my eye. I'll take all the sympathy I can get, mostly because women are so willing to give it. Get them feeling sorry for you and you reel them in, hook, line, and sinker. You'd better not trust me, I won't spare anyone. Give me the opportunity and I'll take it. Remember that, I'm warning you now. I'm not secretly good and I'm not the guy you can 'save.' I get in relationships for one thing, my own personal satisfaction. Why am I telling you? I think I like you; after all, you've been listening to me haven't you? I'm beginning to think you care.


	2. Dreams in White and Grey

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Disclaimer: All Gilmore-Girl related things (namely Tristan and Rory) belong to Amy-Sherman Palladino and the WB. 

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Author's Note: This story is mildly inspired by my favorite movie of all time (The train scene may give you a hint). I won't say which one because that would probably spoil things. Y'all are smart though. You'll figure it out.

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Chapter One: Dreams in White and Grey

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I feel better in the winter, though I'm not sure why. There's something I like about November and December especially, the way the entire world goes grey when snow falls. It's too bright in January, there's too much sunlight making the snow gleam, till everything is blinding white and everyone starts thinking life's alright. It isn't better and it won't be. At least in December and November you don't think about anything, just grey skies, grey city. Sleep is grey, I think, and somehow, when snow has fallen, it muffles everything; it blocks life out.

***

He'd been standing in the rain for quite some time. He was watching puddles form. He wondered, briefly, if the rain would melt all the snow. It was hard to tell. 

"Tristan!" A voice calls to him. He raises his head slowly. The voice comes into view. It belongs to a girl in a cream coloured coat. One of her hands is holding a red umbrella, the other is busy waving at him from across the street. The lights turn green and she crosses over to him. 

"What are you doing? I've been watching you stare at the gutter for several minutes!"

He grins and, taking her hand, pulls her over to stand next to him. Side by side they stare down at the gutter. Brown head next to blonde, shielded from the rain by a red umbrella.

"Oh..." says the girl "...now I see...I see that you're completely crazy! Seriously Tristan, what are we doing?"

"We, my young apprentice, are watching puddles form. I needed something to do to occupy me while I waited for you! You're such a slowpoke."

She looks him up and down "My gosh, you're almost completely soaked! I didn't notice right away."

As if on cue Tristan sweeps her into a huge bear hug. She squeals. "Tristan! Not fair, I wasn't expecting that! Your hands are clammy! Stop it, Tristan, you're too evil!"

He laughs and releases her. She looks at him frowningly, but she cannot keep the twinkle out of her eye. They make a pleasant picture, standing there together. Two young lovers, laughing in the rain.

***

They had known each other in high school, experienced a rocky friendship. That had come to an end when Tristan had been sent away to military school. They had gone their separate ways, not really thinking of each other, except when recalling high school days. Tristan had studied business at Yale. Sometimes news had drifted back to him, through his parents or through the odd associate who knew of Hartford. He heard for a time whispers of a rift in the Gilmore clan, but he did not pay much attention to them. He was young and busy living life. 

It was a surprise therefore, to find himself one day, sitting on the subway next to a woman who looked entirely too familiar. They were both happy to recognize each other, it had been six years since their last meeting. Tristan was different, still confident but without the swaggering arrogance. He often said it had been beaten out of him at military school. Rory too was changed. She was as friendly as ever, but somehow less carefree. Not that she was uptight, but there was something about her which she kept hidden from the world. A sort of personal sorrow. 

In any case, they were different people now. The past was behind them. They actually became friends, and met fairly often, till their friendship turned into something more. They talked about everything, past, present, and future. Theirs was a budding relationship.

***

She stands with her back to him, the wind whipping the hair round her head into a sort of writhing halo. The air is cold, and the smell of salt overpowering. They have been walking along the boardwalk, looking at the turbulent sea. The sky is grey, threatening snow. Already a fine dusting of white covers the earth. He comes to stand behind her, slipping his hands round her waist. He puts his warm cheek to her cold one and they stand there together. Minutes pass in silence. 

"You know" he says quietly "I don't think I've ever been in love before."

She shifts a little in his arms, finally turning her face to him. Her eyes are as grey as the overcast sky. She smiles, briefly, and kisses his cheek. "I know" she says "You love me very much."

He nods and grasps her tighter as the wind picks up.

"Do you want to go now Rory? It's freezing out here!"

"Mmm" she murmurs "But let's come back tomorrow."

They walk together, in the growing twilight, back towards the city and the bright lights. Hand in hand, inseparable for eternity.

***

If there was anything Tristan and Rory did not really discuss, it was their parents. They never really had any cause to, in any case. They were adults now, they could take care of themselves. If sometimes Tristan thought it strange that Rory did not mention her mother, he never questioned her. She would tell him about her if she wanted, he would not pry. They had been very close, once upon a time, Tristan knew that. That they no longer were he also knew. He could therefore only wonder as to what had driven them apart. 

As to his own parents, they left him alone and he left them alone. He had grown out of the passionate hate he'd once nursed for them. He'd found that at military school he no longer had the energy. 

That was something else Tristan did not discuss. It often seemed to him that his years at the Academy came back as surreal flashes, memories of time spent in another world. It had helped him, certainly, it had given him self-honesty. 

On another level though, it had also hardened him. Beneath the flesh and muscle, at the very core of Tristan's being, there lay something sharp. It was there he kept the pain he could not accept. It was buried so deep within him that he was no longer even conscious of it. Memories were stored there, to remind him of each time he had been rejected, forgotten. At the Academy there had been ample time to experience new hurts. The initial hazing reserved for new kids had served to humiliate him. The betrayals he had experienced at the hands of those he thought he could call friends. 

Too many night spent at the infirmary, because of a broken nose, or finger, the growing number of multicoloured bruises which adorned his body in the early days: These made him become meaner, almost vicious. The other boys stopped jumping him when he gave two a concussion and one a broken jaw. It was more luck than skill on his part, but it made the others afraid. Of course he'd been punished for the constant fighting, his free time taken away to be spent doing chores, or running laps or doing push-ups. He'd even been placed in solitary confinement for three days. In general, he didn't like to remember that episode of his life. 

When he'd graduated he had pushed aside his darker half, becoming again the charming and well-mannered man of before. It worked of course, on the outside at least, but the sharpness within him had remained, spikier than ever. He had grown up, matured, from age eighteen to twenty-three. He had thought in time he would manage to outgrow the old hurts, but he did not.

As a result, he was rather pleased but surprised to discover that after meeting Rory and subsequently dating her, the darkness inside himself had abated. He was less angry at everybody. He thought about himself much less. Rory was all that occupied his thoughts. Rory and her beautifully angelic smile. It was she he worried about, her needs he attended to. It was an odd thing, but the more time he spent on Rory the better he felt. Tristan had not had much experience with love before. Lust was a familiar companion, but love? Love was something foreign to him. Love was a denial of selfishness.

***

She is sitting at one end of the couch, a book in hand. He lies stretched out beside her, his head resting in her lap. He too is reading. Every now and then she runs a hand through his blonde hair, as though reveling in the feel. She kneads it, pats it, puffs it up and squashes it down. She puts down her book and looks at him. He looks up at her and smiles.

"Restless, Rory?"

She bends her head to kiss his nose, hair falling forward, tickling his face. They look at each other a long time, two faces suspended in time, shielded from the world outside by Rory's curtain of hair. 

"Tristan" it is a whisper "My Tristan." She lifts her head and Tristan sits up. He swings his legs down onto the floor and reaches over to her. Then she is in his arms, and her lips are on his. 

Sometime later, he finds himself telling her about his parents, about military school, about the things he has kept to himself for so long. She is holding him in her arms, head resting against the back of the sofa. She strokes his arms from time to time, murmuring soothingly. He tells her about his fears, his failures. She does not shrink away from him as he shares his darkest secrets. She does not judge, but holds him tighter in her arms. He feels himself lulled into sleep, as her murmurs grow fainter in his ears, as his eyelids slowly close. He feels a light caress upon his forehead and a warm voice say "Rest, sweetheart." 

***

Being with Rory became a necessity for Tristan. She was like a sort of drug, thoroughly addictive. He began to smile more, to laugh more freely. It was hard to believe sometimes, that his happiness was real, that good times would last forever. It had been exactly one year, since their first encounter on the subway, and they were closer than he could ever have imagined they would be. It made Tristan wonder, sometimes, if he had formed the right impression of the world. Ever since he had met Rory, he had been inclined to have a little more faith in the human race. He had become more hopeful in his outlook on life, a bit more like Rory. 

She never really told him how her life had gone after his departure. She had worked hard, and graduated well. That was all. She had gone to Harvard, as she had dreamed, and studied Journalism. She had ended up in the city, as he had, and then they had met. If Tristan ever minded her secrecy he did not let on. He would not force her into telling him anything, she had to be ready. It is hard to let go of that which lies closest to the heart, to let oneself go, freefalling, trusting absolutely. He understood, for of course, love means patience.

So Tristan waited patiently, until one clear December afternoon, when a phone call came to inform him that his grandfather lay on his deathbed. He phoned Rory immediately after hearing the news. He needed her support. They decided, over the phone, that they would catch the two o'clock train to Hartford. The roads were bad, due to the recent snowfall, and driving down would probably be too slow. They planned to meet at the station, as Rory had a few errands she needed to run beforehand.

***

It's one of those winter days where sky and earth merge in a single expanse of white. A man with a small suitcase at his feet is glancing up at the schedule displayed on the giant screen over his head. His eye picks out the information pertinent to himself: "Amtrak - Destination: Hartford - Departure: 14:00 - Current Time: 13: 56"

The glowing numbers seem to burn into eyeballs. He stands, mesmerized, as the time listed morphs slowly to read "13: 57." Rory should be appearing at any minute. 

"Tristan" says a voice behind his shoulder. He spins round immediately, a smile on his face, and greets the voice.

"Rory!"

Only it is not Rory. It is a middle aged woman, looking slightly embarrassed "Are you Tristan Dugrey?"

He nods, puzzled, and she holds something out to him. An envelope; with the name Tristan Dugrey written clearly on the front of it. He looks dumbly at the woman. She shrugs. "It was left for us at the ticket counter, earlier this afternoon. We only just noticed your name when you came to buy a ticket." 

"Oh." A monosyllable. 

The woman studies him "Right. Well, I've got to get back to the ticket desk. Enjoy the train ride." She walks away.

He stares transfixed at the envelope in his hand. In one swift motion, he tears it open. It contains a few words, written on a white slip of paper:

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Forget me. Try to forgive me. 

Love Always, Rory

His hand goes limp, and the paper falls. 

"All aboard!" 

His head snaps up. The cry has broken through the wild jumble of his thoughts. He turns, with mechanical feet, and steps out onto the platform. The conductor waves him forward.

He lifts his eyes to the sky above and stares blindly at the swirling snowflakes. Then he boards the train. 

***

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The room is bathed in grey-blue light. I cannot tell if it is early morning or late afternoon. I sit at the window, staring down, at city streets, far below me, at people hurrying by. Who are they? What do they want? I wonder if I am awake. Sometimes it's hard to tell. I like the winter months because of that, because day and night are conquered by the endless greyish-white. It's almost suffocating, the clouds, the sky, confining us to this city of grey buildings, grey faces, fog and smog mixed up together. I can't remember anymore, what I have dreamt, what I have lived. 

I place my forehead against cold glass, and watch the heavens open. Come snow, cover the city. Soothe me with your silent lullaby till I can sleep again. Sleep is the snow which clouds the brain. It allows us to forget again, for a time.


	3. Conversations in the City of Angels

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Disclaimer: Anything related unto ye Gilmore Girls world be not mine own, but belongeth rather to our lady of the WB, Amy Sherman-Palladino.

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Author's Note: I'm sorry if this story has so far not been comprehensible. I've been experimenting with a more vague writing style to set the tone of this tale. Perhaps I've been sacrificing sense for style. My most profound apologies, but this chapter is in the same line. If you're not quite sure who the narrator in the prologue was or who is speaking in this chapter, please remember that I haven't actually come out and said anything concrete. You're meant to draw your own conclusions. I will make sure everything is made clear eventually, just be patient with me. If you want though, you can always e-mail me with questions at undoubtedlygoose@netscape.net. Thanks a lot for all your reviews; I'm enjoying myself very much writing this. 

Unfortunately, I won't be able to post for quite some time. Life has become extremely hectic lately. The latest date I promise as an update date is December 30th.

Chapter Two: Conversations in the City of Angels

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I met a strange man last night, a silent figure with a bitter mouth and burning eyes. I found him wandering down the street of memories suppressed. He looked familiar, and it took a while to realize that he was me, searching for himself. Which of us, I wonder, was real? Am I imagining him somewhere in the confused jumble of my brain's circuits, or do I dance ghost-like through his mind? It's hard to know anything, but I'll tell you something true: I am lost in the city of Angels, a fallen man.

***

Look at this guy. He's been a regular for the past three months, but he only comes on Thursdays. I haven't figured out yet why he comes. He doesn't seem to speak with anyone, or even try to dance. I haven't seen him on the prowl either, though it isn't for a lack of fine game. I, for one, never go home lonely from the Bombay. That's the name of this place, by the way, the one and only Bombay Club. It's a pretty high class place. 

Getting back to our guy though, I think he just sits at the bar, blank-faced, and drinks. He must always order the same thing too, because Jack, that's the bartender, doesn't seem to have any trouble remembering him. He sits on the barstool nearest the wall and he's always gone by two am. It's almost sad enough to tempt my better half into going over and saying hello to the little sap. To be honest though, I don't have a better half. I'm just a bored enough tonight to let curiosity take over. After all, I don't get a Vicky and a Paul to entertain me every day. Hmmm...alright, I think I'll go find out what's keeping this loser from his bed. His sob story might be amusing enough to help me make it through the night. 

Don't give me that reproving glare. I'll be nice to the guy, at least, to his face. You can listen in if you want, just don't make it obvious. Sit over there, and be quiet.

I look the guy up and down. He's dressed well enough and his shoes are good, if not expensive. He has longer wavy hair, so he probably isn't a suit man. His face is serious at the moment.

"Hello"

He looks up, startled. His turn to size me up.

"Sorry, I'm not interested." His voice identifies him as a northerner. Definitely not a Californian. He's got the NY attitude, curt and impatient. I guess he thinks I'm trying to pick him up.

I chuckle. "I think you've got the wrong idea..." I pause "...I'm the owner of this club."

I forgot to mention that detail to you before, didn't I? Well, now you know too. I moonlight as the owner of the enormously popular Bombay Club.

"Ah." He's embarrassed at his mistake. He'll be politer now, more attentive, until he's sure of himself again. I've already established a certain amount of credibility though. The Bombay is a good place to be owner of, and the guy in front of me knows it. I can choose to be friendly or haughty with him. In this situation, I'll choose friendly. The guy seems to have enough self-confidence to keep from being a pushover. Polite mockery could backfire on me. I'll have to work on breaking him. 

It's a sick sort of power game I play, really. The goal is to make one's opponent completely vulnerable. Act like a friend, but poison the brain. Encourage negativity and self-doubt. The victim will keep coming back for more, to be listened to, to be subtly criticised. Then you've got yourself a regular paying customer and a neat little mind to mess with.

To win with this guy, I'll need to gain his trust and liking. Then I can slowly proceed to extract the details of all the most miserable moments in his life. By the end of it he won't be able to look me in the face without comparing his sorry being to my cooler, calmer, smarter self. In the real world his name probably means a lot more than mine, but he'll be trapped in a sort of emotional unreality. He'll have a need to return to my club, my turf, to seek recognition, to elevate himself from nobody-hood. He'll seek my approval, ultimately. He'll want the one guy who knows all about him, to accept him, to give him the go ahead for living. Twisted, isn't it? I told you I wasn't very nice. At least I'm an honest bastard. 

I smirk at the guy and commence the onslaught: 

"No hard feelings, guy, don't worry. You never know what to expect. I'm actually flattered you considered the idea long enough to refuse." He laughs, politely. Inside he's probably wondering where this is going. 

"I just like to introduce myself to all the Bombay's latest additions. You've been pretty faithful these past few weeks, or so Jack tells me,-" I gesture in the bartender's direction "-so I thought I'd come on over."

His forehead smoothes, ever so slightly. His suspicions have been allayed. I hold out my hand and we shake. 

"Your drinks are on the house tonight guy, enjoy yourself." He isn't expecting this move on my part. He is pleasantly surprised.

"Hey, thanks man, I'll drink to you." There is genuine goodwill in his voice.

I shake my head.

"Forget you saw me, guy. I'm gone. See you round." I nod to the bartender and slide off the barstool. I feel tired, suddenly. If you don't mind, I'll leave you for now. I think I'll go to my private office. 

I hate it when people thank me.

***

It's Thursday today. I'm waiting for you-know-who to arrive. I think I'm on the verge of hearing his story. Finally. It's been six weeks since our first meeting. I'm tempted to give up and go torment some other, easier, human prey. I won't though. I've never given up on a challenge before. Besides, last week I think I made a breakthrough. He admitted he'd been feeling down. He's started drinking more heavily too. He says it's hereditary. Maybe tonight I'll finally get the goods and be able to leave this fellow to his misery. 

Here he comes. Ten o'clock on the dot. I'll leave him alone for a couple of minutes and then I'll turn up. He always looks glad to see me. I'm a friendly face in a cold world, I guess. How laughable. A dozen of the frozen folk who frequent my club would make better friends than me. Well, he can be disillusioned next week. For now I will ooze kindness and decency. Just as long as he starts talking. I'm getting fed up.

Three minutes have passed. Time to amble on over chez Mr. Cheery. He looks more depressed than usual. He already has an empty glass in hand. I raise my eyebrows at the bartender. Jack only shrugs. I step over to the bar and sink into place. I address my silent companion:

"Troubles you're trying to escape? This is a respectable establishment, guy. Depressed people go to bars. My nightclub is for the suave and sophisticated, not the drunk and disorderly." My voice breaks in on his reverie.

"Hello to you to." He looks at me and smiles wanly "Troubles, man? If only you knew" 

A good beginning. Perhaps with a little encouragement, he'll unfold completely.

"So why don't you tell about them, guy? You've been on a downer since I first met you. What's the matter?" I have begun the reeling in process. I hope he won't put up much of a fight.

"Where to start..." he runs a hand through his hair "...well, it began when I got married."

I laugh appreciatively.

"You misunderstand me. I love being married. My wife is the best thing that ever happened to me. The thing is though, that she's my weakness." He stares at me intently. This is it, we are on the verge. I can taste victory. He swallows, and begins to speak:

"My wife gave up a lot of things to be with me. Maybe I was selfish, but when I was younger I thought the world belonged to me. I asked her to leave her family and friends to come and live with me. She adored me back then, almost worshipped me, because... I guess I looked brave, and new, and more experienced. 

We had a plan. She was going to attend University and I was going to live with her, but work fulltime. Once she graduated, she'd get a good job and I could go back to school, or try my hand at writing. I wanted to marry her, because I loved her so much, and because I wanted to claim her as my own. Her family objected, naturally. We were both pretty young. 

We waited till her second year at University started, and then we got married secretly. When she told her parents, they were furious. They thought I was going to sponge off their daughter; they said I was trouble. I was hurt, and so was she. She made a hard decision, after a final fight with her relatives. She told me that she was cutting herself off from her family. She was giving them up for me. 

I can't tell you what it felt like to hear that declaration, to know that she loved me, above all others. It was intoxicating. I felt invulnerable. My wife would never hurt me, I just knew that somehow. I trusted her where I had never trusted anybody else. She was amazing really. She never lost her awe of me. She never stopped thinking of our love as the ideal love.

I started writing as soon as she graduated. We were both twenty-two. We moved to Philadelphia, and I wrote and published my first novel in the record time of six months. It was pretty solid, and it established a nice name for me as new author. I wrote my second novel about my experiences growing up. You might have heard of it, it was called "Lucy's Son." It was a best seller for a while. I was twenty three by the time I finished that one. I had a very promising future. The critics loved my style. My wife loved me. Everything was going well.

Then things changed. Early in May of that year, the first major fight in our marriage occurred. I don't even remember what it was about, but it escalated to a fever pitch. It ended when I grabbed a bunch of my things and walked out. I felt terrible about it, and even now I wish I'd just swallowed my pride and gone back. Of course, I didn't. If I had I wouldn't be here today. 

I meant to go to a friend's place, spend a couple of days there and then go back home. The funny thing is though, I spent the whole day wandering around the city. I still don't know what I was thinking. I ended up in a fairly bad part of town, at nightfall, with two bags full of my belongings. In retrospect, I was a total fool.

I was an easy target, a schmuck with his arms full, wandering around without a clue where he was going. I was trying to act like I did, except that it was getting darker and harder to see. Some genius had gone around smashing various streetlights, so some sections of street were pretty dark. 

I should have heard them coming. One of them knocked over a garbage can. I though it was a cat. You'd think a kid who grew up in the inner city would have more sense. I guess I'd gotten soft. I didn't really have a chance. Before I knew it, something was connecting with my head, and I was crumpling up. I hit the pavement, I heard a sort of crack, and I didn't remember anything else for a long time. 

When I woke up I was in a hospital bed. I found out I'd been unconscious for a week. They weren't sure who I was, as my wallet was gone, and quite frankly, I didn't know either. I was suffering from mild amnesia. I could remember the day to day, and the far past, but I couldn't remember who I was, or what had happened to me. I'd been brought in by two kids who found me the morning after my mugging. I was lucky to be alive. I was very lucky to have suffered minimal brain trauma, though I did need slight speech therapy. The hospital checked with the police to see if I was listed somewhere as a "Missing Person," but I wasn't. 

What saved me in the end, after several weeks of rehab and wondering who I was, was the bizarre coincidence of meeting another patient, who had read my book "Lucy's Son," and perused it continuously. She recognized me from a picture of myself included on the flyleaf of the book's dust jacket. My publishers were contacted, and through them, my mother. My wife couldn't be contacted. She wasn't at home. Was she even in the same city? 

I couldn't remember why I'd first left her. I couldn't imagine why she'd gone. The one thing that I knew was that a part of me was gone. It was like a sort of numbness took over, all my emotions swept up in a vacuum. I lived with my mom for a while, but in late November I decided to go home. Hundreds of people are left by their spouses every day. I thought I'd try to get over it. 

Returning home was an enormous shock. It was like a trigger in my memory. Fragments of conversation, whispered thoughts, the sound of a woman's voice calling "I'm home!", all these things came back to me, sort of sharp and confusing. I became fairly reclusive, spending my time trying to figure out what had happened to my life. The memories of our fight began coming back to me slowly and they hurt immensely. I felt an incredible amount of guilt, and I finally realized: I really loved my wife. 

I started having nightmares, where my wife was attacked instead of me, and I was always too late. I started thinking that I'd never find her again. I couldn't work at all. My publishers kept reminding me of my contract with them. My third novel was due in eleven months, and I didn't even have an outline for it. It became apparent that I couldn't function without my wife. 

December 19th is a date I'm not likely to forget. It marks the day my life began again. I'd gone to bed the previous night, and I slept quite badly. The first thing I knew when I woke up was that the sun was in my eyes, and then I saw her: Next to the bed, fast asleep in a chair, was my wife. She was holding my hand tightly, as though she would never let go.

I'm not ashamed to say I cried. When she woke up, I didn't waste any time in telling her exactly what she meant to me. It was incredible to me that I could ever have let her doubt my love. We talked for a long time, explaining to each other, both understanding at last. 

Her story was relatively short, compared to mine. After our fight, when I'd left and not come back, she'd taken me seriously. She actually thought I was leaving her. Her fears were confirmed when she waited for a week and heard nothing from me. Her first instinct had been to phone her family, but their long estrangement had made things awkward. She was too proud to admit to them that they'd been right, that I was a jerk who would up and leave her. So she quit her job and went to live with a close friend in New York. I don't quite know how it happened, but my mother tracked her down eventually. After she saw what a wreck I was, she did her utmost to find my wife and bring her home. Thank god she succeeded!" 

I look at this guy and wonder how a sucker like him could get a devoted wife. He's been telling me this melodramatic story and he's actually feeling emotional about it? It's pathetic. Damn boring too. As far as I'm concerned, I've been wasting my time these past few weeks. I thought this guy would actually have something interesting to tell me. Hell, he hasn't even explained why he's so upset yet. No, wait, I spoke too soon. He's opening his mouth to continue:

"I haven't thought about all of that in a long while. It happened four years ago, and that's enough time to forget. I've had other things on my mind too, our first child, my writing career, our relocation to San Francisco. I've been so busy these past few years that I finally decided to take a break. I was going to take a year off, spend time looking after our daughter. So that's what I've been doing, and it's given me time to realize that my wife is not the same. She's loving, she's faithful, but she isn't the same. There's something about her I can't explain. Something in the way she's always quieter on grey winter days. The way she does odd things, like watching puddles form. Who taught her that? 

Is she tired of me? Bored? Have I trapped her in an unfulfilling career? Overshadowed her with my writing? Stifled her? Killed her dreams? All these doubts assail me, and I wonder, how I could have remained oblivious so long? Am I at fault? Does she want to be free of me? I don't know, and I'm too afraid to ask. I'd let her go, if she wanted me too. I'd do anything within my power to make her happy. 

I understand now that something happened to her after she moved to New York. We've never been apart otherwise. I knew we'd both changed in the month and a half of our separation, grown apart slightly. I just didn't realize that we'd never closed the gap. It's miniscule of course. She still looks at me as a sort of hero, the poor kid who overcame his roots to find success. She still admires my writing. She tells me that I have the ability to do whatever I want. She thinks I'm brilliant, talented, sure to leave my mark on the literary world. Many people agree with her. And yet...I feel that somehow her heart is not completely mine. I feel jealous and depressed in turn, and the worst of it is the not knowing. 

Yesterday I was sorting through our pictures, putting them in order, labelling them, and I happened to find one snapshot in particular which struck me. It's of my wife, laughing. I can't identify it though, and I don't remember taking it. It's a delightful picture, but in many ways I wish I hadn't found it. There's a look in her eyes which I've never seen before, a wild spark of life. That's not to say my wife isn't lively, she's a lot of fun. It's just that she looks so completely free, so utterly happy. I went a little crazy when I saw that picture, or rather, when I saw what was written on the other side,

"Dec. 3, 2007"

because I didn't recognize the handwriting, and because the picture had been taken when I'd been in Philadelphia, depressed and wondering if I'd ever see my wife again.

I don't know what to do anymore. I'm walking close to the edge and I feel afraid that one false step will send me spiralling down. I couldn't handle losing my wife again, but I couldn't handle watching her die inside. I've been coming to LA every Thursday to spend a day at the publishing house headquarters. We're in the middle of negotiating a new contract and I've been flying in with my latest pieces and drafts. I take the three am flight back home every Friday morning.

I didn't know what else to do with my nights, other than come here, and then I got to know you. I felt like you were someone I could talk to, a trustworthy confidant. I felt like maybe there was hope after all. I've been drinking more you know, and I'm beginning to think that if I don't do something I'll just keep walking down the road I'm on, in my father's glorious footsteps. I've never been one to ask for help, but man, I need a friend. Tell me, please, what should I do?"

There. He has finally finished his dreary narrative. He is sitting, silent, holding his head in his hands. He has placed the ball in my court, given me the chance to bring his entire world crashing down around him. I would do it too, except that suddenly I can't breathe. I am staring at the woman who has just entered the room, who is making her way carefully over to us. It's as if I see my life flashing before my eyes. There is perfect clarity, and perfect understanding. 


	4. A Meeting of Memory

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Disclaimer: I noticed something funny: This all belongs to Amy-Sherman Palladino and the WB and all that, but WB can also stand for writer's block...how weird.

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Author's Note: Argh. I don't know what I think of this chapter. I just couldn't get it to do what I wanted, so I decided to make it short and add another chapter soon.

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Dedication: To Deeta, who is a very loyal reader. Thanks for all the encouragement!

Chapter Three: A Meeting of Memory

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There are times when we must look at ourselves and realize exactly how far we have come; how different our lives are than the ones we expected to live. I used to have so many dreams, but somehow, I forgot them. Not forgot exactly, but rather, ceased to dream them. The things I wanted seem so...unimportant now. We can't understand what it is like to be older when we are young. In the same way, we can't remember what it is like to be young, when we are old.

***

The silence, she notices, seems suddenly louder. She feels it crashing over her, breaking down upon her head. She is going to drown in it. She hears herself shout, but her lips do not move. So she stands still, staring at him, willing herself to be calm.

It is a scene common enough to any bar or club, two seeming strangers, eyes locked upon each other, and a sad looking man, slouched on a barstool between them; except that, as the seconds tick past, neither speaks nor moves.

Then, the sad man on the barstool gives a sigh, and squints up at the woman standing next to him. His back goes rigid suddenly, and he attempts to sit up straight.

"Sweetheart?" inquires the man, incredulous.

Her gaze drops, from the man she has been staring at, to the man who has just spoken.

"Yes, it's me." She speaks quietly but firmly.

"Rory - what are you doing here?" The fellow looks positively bewildered.

"Well firstly, Jess, I came to retrieve my wayward husband. Secondly, I came to ask him if he has any idea of what time it is!" 

Both Jess and the man who had been staring at his wife, glance instinctively at their watches. The time reads 6:23.

"I missed my plane" says Jess, as though struggling to understand. He looks down helplessly at the countertop in front of him. It is littered with empty bottles and shot glasses. He is surprised. He does not recollect having drunk so much. He turns to his companion, the man who had been listening to his life's story all night, the man whom his wife is staring at again.

"Hey, man," he whispers loudly "Did you know I was missing my plane? You were supposed to be my friend, you were supposed to tell me what to do!"

His drinking companion says nothing. He gets slowly to his feet instead, and turns to survey a room which is now completely empty, save for a few stragglers hunched at corner tables. 

"This club," he speaks clearly and deliberately, "Is now closed. Please leave." He sits down again and turns his face to the wall.

Jess looks at the man, a confused expression on his face, but Rory takes his arm and pulls him to his feet. 

"Come on Jess," she speaks gently, "let's go home." 

They slowly make their way to the entrance of the club, a young couple; husband leaning on his wife for support. Then they are at the doors, and Rory takes a last backward glance at the man sitting at the bar. His back is still turned to them, and he appears to have begun drinking. He raises a glass to his lips and tilts his head back. He sits tall and erect, shoulders proudly straight. He is very much the successful owner of the _enormously popular Bombay Club_. She turns quickly away.

"Come on, darling" she whispers to Jess, and then they are out in the crisp, early morning air, under a sky that is beginning to turn pink.

***

The hour long flight back to San Francisco is uneventful. Jess sleeps the sleep of the hung-over, and Rory has time to ponder the events of that morning. She wonders if she and Jess will ever discuss it. She doubts it. 

She had suspected something was wrong when he had not been on the plane that morning. She had called the friend who looked after their daughter and told her that she was going to L.A. It had taken a while to get through to one of Jess's publishers. She had been told of his habit of visiting the Bombay Club to kill time, before catching the 3:00 am flight. 

She had thought it would be illegal for a club to stay open after three, but apparently the owner of the Bombay had a deal with the police. The bouncers at the door had let her in easily, and she had soon picked him out in the silent club, at the bar, next to a man who looked strangely familiar...

She had made a habit of picking Jess up at the airport every Friday morning, ever since he had started negotiations for the new contract. It's the least she can do, to be there for him in body, when she can't be there in spirit. She wonders, sometimes, if Jess has ever noticed. These past few months, she has begun to think he has. He's drinking more, she knows, and it's changing him. She remembers the man she thought she had known, independent, stubborn, and strong. This man sleeping beside her, smelling of booze and smoke, is...weak. 

She has seen him drunk before, but it had been different. He had been alive and reckless then. In her university days, she recalls. They had often gotten drunk and gone running through the streets whooping and laughing, bar-hopping all night for fun. 

This morning he had seemed so lost, as though he needed someone to guide him, to help him. Jess is not a helpless person. He's confident and always sure of himself, or at least, he'd always seemed so. Yet, back there in the club, she had almost been ashamed of him. 'Perhaps,' she thinks, 'I'm being unfair. Perhaps I only feel that way because...because...' but she cannot bring herself to think _his _name. 

She has lately started regretting her decision to come back to Jess. They have not been the same together, since the night she came back. She hadn't noticed at first, because there had been so many things going on after their re-union. He'd begun making a name for himself, they'd moved, she had become pregnant, and life had just been terribly busy. This past year though, when he had taken some time off writing, she had understood suddenly that, ever since her return, he had placed her on a pedestal and worshipped her. 

He had given up smoking suddenly, for her, and she had been touched. Then he had become more attentive, doing things she liked, preparing surprises for her, and she had been flattered. When he stopped arguing with her, however, she had begun to worry. She had realized that he was treating her like something fragile, as though he were afraid of breaking her. Or losing her again. 

Rory often wonders at the power she holds over Jess. At first she had felt it tedious, but more recently, a part of her has admitted that she likes it. She can do anything she wishes, ultimately. She can indulge herself, because Jess never tries to stop her. It's enough to make anyone selfish, and yet, overall, she feels only frustrated. She wishes that Jess could feel angry at her, could feel something other than anxiety over her. She wishes that he could be strong again, so that she did not have to be their support. She knows that if she so chooses, she can leave him, and he will not blame her. That's partly why she doesn't. She can never tell him what really happened in New York either, because he wouldn't feel angry or jealous, only hurt and insecure. 

The really terrible thing about it, she knows, is that since the day he left, he has never been able to cease feeling guilty. He still feels guilty, because she wants him to; because she has never forgiven him for leaving her that day or for needing her to come back to him. She can't forgive him for having taken her love for granted, even though he has spent the last four years doing penance. Mostly though, she can't forgive him because her bitter anger lets her feel that she is blameless. She isn't.

That's something she has never admitted to herself. Something she could never admit to him. He put her on a pedestal, and now she's afraid to fall from it. Yet the fact remains that, while Jess left her temporarily, he was never unfaithful. She was. She wonders why it bothers her so much. Men and women cheat on each other all the time. Some people say it's natural, that human beings aren't meant to be monogamous. She knows that ought to comfort her, but deep down she also knows that, if Jess ever told her he had been unfaithful, she would leave him on the spot. If she can't tolerate weakness in him, how can he tolerate it in her? It's all so confused and twisted. She has never really known what she wants, and she still doesn't.

***

He sits in the dark and looks out at the city. It is still shrouded in sleep, but to the east long, golden fingers are reaching out. They hit the tops of buildings, glass skylights, metal roofs, until the city is illuminated. He is often awake at daybreak, but this morning he has more to consider than what he will eat for breakfast. The club is empty now, the bouncers having cleared everybody out. He wonders if his friend at the nearby police station will be popping by later for his share of the profits. Probably. 

He turns to consider the city again, but her face keeps getting in the way. He looks dumbly down at the empty bottle in his hand, and she is there too. He smiles, and in one swift movement, hurls the bottle at the wall in front of him. 

She is still there though, staring at him, her face visible on each glassy shard. He lets his head drop, and closes his eyes.

It is some time later when Jack the bartender enter the room. He surveys the scene, and sighs. He had been hoping to get home early. There are still a few club employees on the higher floors. He leaves to enlist their help. Someone must take the boss home and the rest of them will have to clean up the place. He shakes his head as he heads toward the elevators. It's a good thing this only happens in the winter time. 


	5. Past Choices

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Disclaimer: Property of ASP and the WB

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Author's Note: It's been a while but here I am again. This chapter is a little different than those which have come before. I hope you'll like it anyway.

Chapter Four: Past Choices

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Isn't it funny how life moves in cycles? Life is like the seasons: ever-changing, always fundamentally the same. Spring, summer, autumn, winter; Rainy season - dry season; six months of darkness, six months of light. Life goes on repeating itself and there isn't anything anyone can do to change it.

***

By the time I find Daly on the fifth floor, and tell him the boss has passed out downstairs, it's already eight and I'm late for work. I have two jobs, you see, bartending by night, working in a garage by day. Ever since my sister got sick and had to stop teaching, it's been a balancing act between sleep and work. Her kids are real good about it though, and the guys at the garage understand if I'm late. Besides, the boss always makes it up to me when this happens.

***

He wonders if they'll be waiting for him when he gets there. He can't be sure of anything. Corey had said they'd let up on him now. Corey had said that if he just did this one last thing, they'd leave him alone. Corey is a prick and a liar. He knows this already; but Corey is the only one who'll talk to him. He rubs his eyes. He hates dorm duty, walking around, inspecting every room. If anyone breaks curfew it's his fault. The joys of being a senior. He hopes Corey isn't lying. He hopes that reporting everyone accounted for, while room 6C sneaks out, will finally buy him acceptance.

***

I take the stairs two at a time, Daly jogging after me. We pick the boss up between us and Rosele shows up out of nowhere and says she'll clean up the bottles and broken glass. We manage to get him outside fairly easily, and into Daly's car in the underground parking lot. Sometimes he'll get wild on you, thrashing and yelling, but this morning he seems pretty out of it. Daly shifts his car into gear and then we're off, gunning down the sun soaked streets of L.A., which is, if you know the city, a rare occurrence. The boss says he likes it grey, but he's a rain and fog kind of guy really. Not that he's gloomy or anything, but just hanging around him makes a guy feel down. Life's funny, huh? I'm the guy with two nieces to feed and a sister who's knows she's dying, despite what I tell her, and somehow I'm calling this easy-living boozer the poor bastard. It'd be laugh-out-loud funny if it weren't so damn sad.

***

The one good thing about dorm duty is getting the showers to yourself. After reporting in, he's allowed to prepare for bed in peace. There's always the chance of being attacked in the showers when the others are there, so easy for them to say: "He simply slipped sir, the tiles get wet in there. We all saw it sir, nobody was to blame." They've done it so many times already, leaving him bruised and helplessly angry. Before, they left him alone when he had dorm-duty, but will tonight be different? Will they be waiting and will Corey laugh and say "Sucker" while he punches in his guts? No way of knowing. He passes by his locker, gets his soap, shampoo and towel. The showers are on the same floor as the Senior lockers. A perk, he supposes.

***

The boss lives in a nice enough area. He could probably do better with what he makes, but who knows? The apartment's pretty fancy. One of those places that comes fully furnished. That's another thing about the boss, he doesn't keep a lot of stuff. In my opinion, it could be anyone living in his apartment, and that's never a good sign. Before I got the job at the Bombay, I worked in a lot of smaller places. I've taken a fair number of drunks home in my time, and lots of them were sad jerks, but it was always the ones living in empty sort of places that you heard about later, smashing themselves up in their cars, or jumping off high places. I figure some of those guy were probably happier dead, but as far as the boss is concerned, I'd like him to stick around. The Bombay pays well and tips are good. It's the best spot I've had since I started tending bar, and the boss got me working on the VIP floor, where the tips are always bigger, when he heard about my sister. He can be strange like that sometimes. 

If he shifted off who knows what would happen? A lot of clubs go down when management changes. Some owners become legends in their own clubs, and that starts drawing people. The boss was like that when he started, it was around three years ago. Suddenly there was a new face on the scene, young, suave, supremely cool. That's what the atmosphere is all about really, and the boss just fit. If you've ever gone clubbing you'll probably know what I mean. Some people just seem to belong; they can dance, they can drink, they can talk above the music without shouting. The people who live for dim light and smoky air and a million neon signs shining in the darkness. Too beautiful to be real, too cool to exist under anything but moonlight. People like that grow out of the shadows, fade when the sun comes up. That's the boss, and people like it. He's always in control, gliding through what he makes a sort of night-time kingdom. No door is closed, nothing denied him. He's rich and strange and he makes you wonder. 

But somehow, in the light of day, he always looks less real. Who is he really? Just another face, no one who matters in the reality of daily life. A man who favours one-night stands, since somehow, in the mornings, he's never what he'd seemed. King of dreams. 

I used to envy people like the boss, until I met him, and drove him home for the first time. He might look better, live better, but what good is that when he's drowning himself in alcohol anyway? My cousin was the same way, living the high life, making us envy her. The one day she ends up in hospital, having her stomach pumped, and we all have to ask ourselves, what really makes you happy?

***

He's yawning as he walks into the shower room, feeling sleepy, already dreading morning bugle call and the run before breakfast. He closes his eyes for a second. He hears a faint moan. Instantly his eyes snap open, his body tenses. Cautiously, ears pricked, he approaches the wall separating sinks and shower stalls. He peers around it. There is silence. He looks round carefully, finds what he is looking for. The corner stall, with a funny trickle of pinkish water coming out from under it. He is suddenly terribly afraid. He rushes to the corner stall, caution forgotten. He flings open the stall door. He thinks he is going to be sick. The shower is running, water falling clearly from the showerhead. On the floor is a small boy, one of the seventh graders. His face is unrecognisable. His eyes are swollen shut and black, his lips puffy, his nose bent funnily. He is missing several teeth. A stream of blood flows from his mouth, mixes with the water. The kid cringes when he sees the figure looming over him, but groggily, like someone who has been shaken from a deep sleep. "Shh, shh," says the older boy, bending down. He recognizes the kid. Gently he lifts the boy, cradling him in his arms. One of the kid's arms hangs uselessly. "Shh," says the older boy, and blinks back the stinging behind his eyelids. This is the kid he's supposed to mentor. All the seniors are given freshmen to mentor, it's supposedly a way to provide the young and impressionable with strong role-models. 

He looks helplessly down at the boy in his arms, and the cruelty of it threatens to overwhelm him. Was this what room 6C had accomplished while he'd reported them asleep in bed? What hatred, he wonders, what kind of hatred could drive them to punish an innocent kid who had the bad luck to get me in the mentor system? He thinks he knows. It is the kind of hatred which burns through him as he walks to the infirmary building, a flame which burns brighter than the hundreds of stars twinkling overhead.

*** 

We empty the boss's pockets, looking for his keys, and Daly says he thinks the boss is coming round. We open the door, stick the boss on the sofa, and Daly's just turning to ask me if we should wait till the boss wakes up, when suddenly the boss is on his feet and he's grabbed Daly by the throat, and it's the scariest thing I've seen in a long time. "You're not going to get away with it," says the boss, and he's furious, his pupils so huge that his eyes look almost black. "I won't forget, I never forget!" Daly's petrified and his face is turning purple, the boss is holding him so tight. "Boss," I say, "please, Boss, wake up, wake up!" and my voice is a squeak. He turns his head suddenly, and his eyes seem to go back to normal." Jack?" he asks, and his voice is warm again and slightly drunk. "Boss," I say again, "Please, I think you're strangling Daly." He looks back at Daly and lets go, and Daly stumbles back and he starts wheezing. "Hell," says the boss, "I thought for a second..." and then he mumbles something which sounds like Corey. "Hell," says the boss again, "I'm sorry. Have a drink guys, Daly, I'm sorry." Daly just nods, but I can tell he's still scared out of his mind. 

We all have a drink, and the boss seems to be sobering up, but Daly and I are still feeling shaken. It's things like this which make me wonder about the boss. What does he dream about, that makes him so cold, sharper-than-ice angry, that makes him ready to strangle a man half to death? The boss is a fine guy when you get to know him, despite what some people say, he's always fair. Maybe he isn't ready to be your best buddy, which some people feel snubbed by, but he at least treats everyone the same. I like the boss really, he's not a friend, but he keeps his word. I like the boss and yet sometimes, always when he's half awake, he's someone I don't know and don't want to know. Once he's awake he's always in control, but that's kind of what scares me. What is he keeping down? What kind of thing creeps out when his mind is away? That's what really freaks me out. What if one day he just snaps? I'm a grown man, thirty-five years old, but sometimes, when I see his face, so contorted by rage, I think that maybe he's worse than the nightmares I screamed at as a kid.

***

He watches Daly and Jack. They're both silent as they drain their glasses. They're both afraid, he senses. He regrets this morning's actions, but sometimes he can't be sure of what is dream and what reality. Poor Daly. He'll get over it soon enough. Push it to the back of his mind, where unwanted memories go. Fair enough. Tristan almost feels like sighing, but he knows that will make Jack look at him. Jack wonders about him enough as it is. He wonders sometimes, what Jack thinks of him. How many violent outbursts has he witnessed? How many unrestrained attacks has he endured? Jack is a good guy. Tristan wishes he could do something more to help him. There are so many he has wanted to help. So many he has wanted to hurt. 

He knows why he almost strangled Daly this morning. He remembers the dream. He remembers that night vividly, the walk to the Infirmary, the vigil by the kid's bedside. He remembers the kid's confusion, his inability to understand the random and vicious attack. He remembers watching the kid's parents arrive the next day to take him away, the way they'd thanked him for helping their son. Helping their son. It was like a slap in the face. He remembers mostly the kid's mother. The way her voice thanked him, while her eyes accused: _Why didn't you save him, protect him? _He'd wanted to explain that he couldn't even save himself, but he only lowered his eyes, stayed silent, watched them drive away. 

Afterwards he found that he was different. Somehow he was changed over night. Before, he had been weak, frightened. After, the hatred made him strong. The hatred saved him. The next time he was ambushed in the showers, the hatred pushed him until somehow two of his attackers lay unconscious and he was sitting on top of Corey Lurt, hitting him over and over until the sergeant rushed in and pulled him off. Later, when he learned that he'd broken Corey's jaw, he'd thought of the kid's mother. 'I could look her in the eyes now,' he'd thought, and the hatred had whispered quietly in his ear, "Well done." 


	6. Let The Night Cover Us

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Chapter Five: Let The Night Cover Us

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I saw her running in the twilight, very small and far away. I thought that maybe she could reach me, before the darkness fell. So I sat where I was, and I waited, and it never occurred to me that I could go out to meet her. 

I sit here still, but I think she has turned back; because the world is black and she does not come.

***

Low music, music to croon to. The people sway back and forth, and she watches them intently. She wonders where he is. A part of her is slightly troubled, but she has never been the sort of girl to let anything intimidate her long. She needs to see him.

Since the chance encounter last week, she had waited for some sign from him. Something to tell her that now he could find her again, he would come. She had waited in vain. He had not attempted to contact her whatsoever. She had not thought it would sting as much as it did, but somehow the lack of response had stirred something crazy in her. Which explained how she was here in LA, late in the evening, her husband and child left behind in San Francisco, both imagining she had flown to New York to deal with an emergency.

***

"You're kidding me, right Rory?"

"I'm not. I'm more serious now than the night I told you I was marrying Jess."

"But why? I thought you'd decided to leave it all behind! What's done is done. You can't make the past come back. Leave it alone."

"I need to see him, Lane. I thought at first it was something that would pass, that when I went back to Jess, everything would fade. I thought it would be like waking up from a dream, and thinking, 'That was nice, but now I have to go back to the real world.' I was ok, really, I just accepted that some things are not meant to be -"

"Some things aren't. That's life for you."

"I know, we all make choices, and then we deal with the consequences. Except that somehow, I've gotten a second chance. It isn't coincidence, that now when everything is going wrong with Jess, I get to meet _him_ again. It's a sign. I just want to see Tristan, just once. I never got to say goodbye to him, Lane. Do you know what that's like? I need to make it right with him. I have to do this."

"I don't know, Rory. You can't keep jumping in and out of people's lives. It isn't fair."

"It wasn't fair to Tristan, to be left like that."

"How is seeing him one more time going to make up for that?"

"I can explain it to him, tell him everything."

"How do you know he'll listen?"

"If he still cares, he'll listen. If he doesn't, what I have to say won't matter."

"Just promise me this won't get messy. Promise and I swear I'll help you. "

"It won't get messy, I promise."

"Alright, what do I do?"

"I just need an excuse to leave San Francisco. If you think up an emergency for yourself, I can pretend to be flying down to help you."

"This sounds really sneaky."

"Will you do it anyway?"

"Fine. But never again."

"Sure, whatever you say."

"I mean it, Rory."

"I know you do. Anyway, gotta go."

"Rory...I'll do it...but I really don't like it."

"I knew I could count on you."

"That's not the point Rory."

"You're right, but I really have to go. Bye, Lane."

"Rory!"

Click.

***

So here she was, stepping out into the great unknown. Except that she'd been sitting up here for over half an hour, and she hadn't seen head or tail of him. He'd once told her that he loved watching other people dance, so she'd made her way to the main dance floors, which were on the third level, but to no avail. He was isn't here. She's almost starting to get angry. 

Not that it was supposed to be easy or anything, but he was at least supposed to be here to talk to, however awkward that might be. There wasn't supposed to be time to think and re-consider. It ought to be a sort of headlong rush, where you stopped thinking about everything for once, and just felt. Except he isn't here to rush headlong into, and instead she's imagining a little face, looking at her accusingly, with eyes which are a blue to match her own. She never thought she'd ever end up resembling her father. When she thought about kids, she thought about her mother: 'I had a great mother, so I'll be a great mother too.' That sort of thing. Except now her own kid seems a million miles away. A grinning, black haired two-year old she sometimes finds herself frowning at. Which means what? That she's a bad mother who resents her own kid? That isn't true. She loves her daughter very much. Just maybe not enough. And she really doesn't want to be thinking these thoughts, so she stops thinking altogether. Just sit here, Rory. Listen to the music. Watch the people, wait for him. He'll turn up eventually. He has to. Just sit here Rory, easy does it.

***

He pulls up at the Bombay around one, tired and not feeling very well. He has been getting headaches for several weeks now. His doctor is afraid it might be the start of migraines. Which is so boring. Businessmen get headaches, and he isn't a businessman, just a guy helping his father spend a surplus of wealth. Or so his father would have him believe. He isn't a total dunce though. He can add and subtract as well as the next guy, better even. He understands accounting and taxes and all that, else what was the point of a business degree? He knows that compared to the offspring of his father's associates, he's relatively responsible. Relatively. 

Being rich, he has decided, means only that you can have drugs and sex whenever you want. Otherwise your life is just as empty as the next guy's. Course if you're too smart (or too dumb) to use your own money to destroy yourself, you'll use it to destroy other people. Mind games, further amassment of wealth, there's only so much you can do. You can be rich and powerful, but what good is that if you can't even control your own son? It's pointless, all the money in the world, all the dirty games you can play with it, if you can't bring your own children to heel.

Yup, it's been one of those days again. Lawyer Day. It's always a pain having to deal with lawyers, but when you wake up to find one standing at the foot of your bed, wrinkling his nose at the boozy heap which is yourself, you know you have woken into a nightmare. His father's lawyers are always disapproving. He never gets the jovial clever ones his father likes to hang around with, just the hang-dog gloomy types. They always say the most encouraging things too. "You're on the verge of bankruptcy" - "Ms. ____ is threatening to sue you" - "Your father is cutting off all your funds" - "Your mother wrote you out of her will" - "The police are investigating you" - which is all well and good, but not what a fellow wants to hear every third Sunday of the year. Especially not when his life is one continuous party. It's very hard, despite what you might think, to live the nightlife twenty-four seven. It gets tiring, night after night of looking better than most and being better than most and getting better than most.

He doesn't know why his father continues to harass him. He has managed to stay afloat without handouts from Daddy for the past three years, ever since he left his company desk job and came out here to personally manage his father's West Coast properties. Profits continue to flow and he has handed over most of the management to guys who like poring over paperwork and dealing with bureaucracy. Except for the Bombay. The Bombay Palace is his pet project. Most nightclubs don't ever last longer than a decade. They spring up and wink out, because nothing is ever continuously cool. The Bombay is still cool, mostly, because he runs it. It isn't boasting to state facts. He has worked hard to build up his reputation, and he still works hard at maintaining it. The odd scandal, now and then, a few outrageous acts. The reputation as a bastard too, that's what really helps. People spit at kindness, they couldn't care less. What people crave is someone to kick them when they're down. It's sick, very, very sick, but people are always fascinated by those who treat them like dirt. Of course, you have to keep within the law. He isn't into abuse or anything like that. Just old-fashioned meanness. The kids who won't let anyone else play with them, so of course everyone is just dying to. It doesn't work on everybody, nothing ever works on everybody, so you have to subtle, and change depending on the temperature. He's cold to most, cruel to those who come too close, and tired when everything is said and done. 

It's very dull, really. His life is like a dream. He can do whatever he wants, whenever he wants, because there's enough of his own money. Except he never ends up doing anything. Just sticks around, lives, wonders what it's all about. He used to think maybe he could live to spite his parents, and then he realized they weren't worth it, and then he discovered he didn't have any reason for living. And maybe that's the key, really. He isn't living. Only drifting, passive, through colourful scenes. If he died, who here in LA would realize he had ceased to exist? The club would, which is funny. He exists for the club, and it exists for him. It's a strange existence, to wake up in the evening, and go to the club till the morning, and then sleep till dusk again. Bills and licenses and supplying food and drink and hiring entertainment, all those things which are connected to the real world, are dealt with in the evening, before the night really falls. Talks with lawyers and bankers happen regularly at six pm in the 'Private' rooms he keeps at the Bombay for all business dealings. It's unusual, but he's the guy with the money, and he can do things anyway he wants. It's almost like being a celebrity in his own created world. He says the world and people jump. He has so many people, people to manage his business during the day, when the normal world is at work. People to worry for him and think for him. 

His father would never approve of his methods. It isn't smart to give up control. He doesn't care. They can rob him blind, stab him in the back. It's all quite okay. He'll only keep on floating, anyway, through everything. His father keeps threatening to cut him off, unless he turns his life around, makes himself useful. He'd do it too, probably will, one of these days. It doesn't matter though. He'd thought that, seeing her again, things would change. He thought it would be a revelation. Then she'd shown up and it sort of was. To have the whole torturous story explained to him. To discover that her disappearance, so painful, should be so easily explained. All that time spent wondering, crying out in a dead city "Why?" and the reason was only stupid and common. A man leaves his wife. She comes back to him one day. End of story. He doesn't even belong anywhere in it. Or he shouldn't, but he knows he does, and he knows she cared, but she still left him anyway. Which doesn't explain what he's been doing with his life the past three years, or why his life seemed to de-rail when she left. His failure, the steady sinking until the point he currently finds himself at, there's no great reason to explain it. She was hope and light, and then he discovered that she was none of these things, but only a person like himself. So he doesn't blame her or curse her or try to follow her when she leaves again. He doesn't try to track her down in the week that follows. He doesn't do anything, because he's used to doing nothing now. 

He's up on the third floor, strolling over to the bar when he sees her. She's by herself at a table, watching the gyrating mass of people dancing. He could walk right past her, and she wouldn't know. He could turn around and leave the club and go home, if he liked. Except that he knows why she's here, and some part of him thrills at it. She's here for him, and him alone.

***

"Mind if I sit down?" asks a voice above the music.

And it's Him, and he's sitting down, before she can say anything.

They're silent together, watching the people. There's a sweaty looking couple bathed in blue light who are dancing right in front of them. The light moves on and their faces are obscured until a red arc catches them. They're laughing, but she can't hear them above the surrounding noise. It's so awkward again, because it would be so easy to be familiar, but she isn't sure how he'd react. She keeps staring at the couple, because despite the fact that this her chance, what she's been waiting for all night, she's not sure what to say anymore.

Then he puts a hand on her arm and says something which she barely hears, except "...somewhere we can talk..." and he stands up and beckons and she follows. They end up on another floor, and down a corridor which is strangely empty, and then in a sort of sitting room where he holds the door open for her and closes it behind him.

"There," he says, "This is one of my private rooms. I keep them for convenience."

"Business or pleasure convenience?" she blurts out, even though she doesn't mean to.

"Business," he replies, and laughs. Then suddenly she knows everything is going to be alright, and it's such a relief that she looks him straight in the eyes for the first time

And somehow she's in his arms, whispering "I'm sorry," and he's murmuring back "I know. I understand."


	7. The Waking Hours

****

Disclaimer: I forgot my last disclaimer. Sorry. In any case, the characters and such belong to ASP and the WB.

****

Chapter Six: The Waking Hours

__

Sometimes people tell us unfortunate things. Truths we would rather not hear. News we would rather not know. Lies we should never listen to. It is a dangerous thing, to be alive in the world. We must always listen carefully to the things people tell us. We must hear what they do say, and what they don't say. What they let slip and what they hide. We must draw our own conclusions, and try to answer wisely.

***

She's asleep now. Which gives him time to think. There are lots of things to consider. Like what to do tomorrow. What to decide. Once it might have been easy, but there are so many angles to cover now. They shouldn't matter, but they do. His mind keeps wandering, to this, to that, to so many irrelevant things. 

Outside, the city is very bright. He sits on a sofa and stares out the windows. He sees streets, filled with people, passing in and out of shadows, under the glare of streetlamps, past the light of shop windows. The city breathes, and he doesn't remember what the night looks like without the orange glow of light-pollution. Day, night, it does not matter what hour: He looks out on the same view. Red taillights blinking, the white of headlights below. People sitting on balconies, at all-night cafes, individual people he can make out, wandering here and there. 

He looks down at the city, and he sees so many things. He sees summer days, and people swimming at dawn. Empty beaches gradually filling, he and Rory somewhere amongst the crowd, together. He sees her laughing under an autumn sky, and he imagines long forest walks beneath a canopy of red and golden leaves. He thinks of a home, a leafy place in a pleasant suburb. He pictures driving home with Rory, to see small faces in the window, waiting for them, and racing her to the door. He thinks of perfection, and he thinks that maybe, it could all be his. He considers for a long while, spinning out the story of another life. He considers, and he sighs, and then he closes his eyes and lets it go. When he opens them again to look once more out the window, there is only the city, glowing and moving. There is only the light of another night, and there is nothing else to see. 

The room behind him is dark, Rory a shape somewhere in it. She is a sound of low breathing, a chest rising and falling steadily. She is a face he knows, a heart he has heard beating. She is two hands which moves towards him as he slips beside her, back into bed. She is the warmth he puts arms around, the body he holds. She is a dream made of tears. She is a life he no longer lives. 

He lies in the darkness, his arms around her, and the light of the night world streams in through his uncovered windows. He stares at the ceiling, and there is no anger, or hatred, or bitterness. Perhaps there never was. Perhaps he will wake up tomorrow to see snow outside his window, and he will be in New York, and the Rory beside him will stir and say "Go back to sleep, Tristan." Perhaps she has always been here with him. 

He lies in the darkness, which is really half-shadow, and finds that he is awake. He is wide-awake, and he loves her more than anything. No more sleeping, and dreaming, because those things he dreamed of are gone. Everything is gone, except the knowledge that he loves her. 

***

It doesn't feel like her bed, but it's familiar anyway. It takes awhile for her to open her eyes, and then she remembers. She's here, in LA, with Tristan again. She rolls over, and there he is. He's awake too, watching her. It's strange, how comfortable she feels. How sad, too. It's very sad really, how much people need each other.

"Rory," he says. It's hard to know, looking into his eyes, what he's thinking. She's afraid things might get messy, despite her promises to Lane. She's afraid because she's ready to stay. She will, if he wants her, and that means leaving a lot of things behind.

"Rory," he says again, and she thinks suddenly of every happy moment she has ever shared with Jess. She thinks of her daughter, and of how fragile life is. You can upset everything without meaning to. You can ruin people without meaning to. You can be torn in so many directions that you don't want to have to choose.

"Rory," he says gently, "It isn't real."

She turns her head away before he says it, because somehow she's been expecting him to. She buries her face into the pillows and cries. There is sorrow, regret, and perhaps relief; all kinds of things running into each other. She could stop him, if she wanted, lean over and say "I don't care." Except she does care, so she lies silent as he talks, and lets him stroke her back 

"We happened a long time ago, Rory. Things were different, and we were different, and that matters whether or not we want it to. I think you loved me once, Rory. Only I'm not who I used to be. You don't want to love me, you want an escape. You want to go back to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore. Rory, you aren't unhappy. You're lonely. You're lonely because you don't feel close to either of the things in your life you think you should feel close to. You feel lost too, because you don't know how to stop feeling lonely." 

She listens, and all the time his voice gets softer, and later she thinks that maybe there was something in his voice he was trying to suppress. Later she also thinks that maybe, had she taken her face from the pillow and managed to look at him, she might have seen eyes which were too bright. But she thinks none of those things till later, only wonders if he wants her to go, or if she wants to go and he's trying to help because she's too weak to say so

"I met Jess, Rory. He told me all about his life while he was coming to my club. I know he loves you, and you should know that too. He made his mistakes, Rory, but we all do. Let them go - everything that weighs on you. None of us has the right to condemn. Balance things out, Rory. Tell him about us. About what we were. It's over now. We both know that. He'll understand. 

People fall in and out of love all the time. Feelings are fickle. Few people will always be in love. That's why it shouldn't just be feelings keeping people together. That's why it's about the commitments we make. You never promised me anything. There's nothing you owe me, no matter what you think. When you left, it took me a long time to figure out that I didn't hate you, and that you never owed me anything. It took me right up until I saw you again for the first time. That's when I knew. 

It's my life, Rory, mine to look after. There isn't any other person who can tell me how to live it, because everyone is busy with their own lives. You helped me when I needed it very much. But you never had any responsibility for me. Jess is different. You married him, and maybe you've regretted it for a long time, but he loves you, and he's been trying to make it work. Not the right way, I guess, but he doesn't know what to do. Help him, Rory, because he needs you now. That's what you did when you married him. You made him the priority on your responsibility list. 

I don't want to preach at you, Ror, but before you, I thought marriage was a joke. And then I started thinking, after I got to know you, that you, of all people, would take it seriously. It wouldn't be a joke to you. You'd think about it carefully, because that's the kind of person you are. You care. You care about your actions and what they say about you. I told you that right now you're lost. It's because you don't remember what you're like, but I do. You're kind.

I know it's a lot to ask, but Rory, if you can stay with Jess, only for your daughter's sake, it'll mean a lot to her. I know you and Jess could live together as friends, even if you felt like you could never love him again. And that's all your daughter will want. Parents who are friends. Having parents who at least respect each other, it could change the way your daughter sees the world. She could see it the way you saw it once, and she wouldn't be wrong. If you could bring up some one else like you into the world, it would be a lighter place. You told me last night that you think you've done too many wrong things to ever make them right. You can make them right. You have the courage and patience, even if you've forgotten you do. People think they want to hate, Rory, but they don't. They want to love and be loved. Don't hate yourself, Rory. I don't, and I couldn't, even when I wanted to. I love you."

Then he's done, his voice is silent, and it's like floating away. She's somewhere very quiet and very still. Maybe she loves him, maybe she doesn't it. Maybe she wishes she and Jess had never fought, so that they could be leading their happy, innocent lives. Maybe she loved Tristan once, but he's right, those days are gone. Maybe she still does. Maybe sometimes there are right and wrong choices, and he is trying his best to be the Tristan she knew back then. She's been with Jess six years. That's a lot to throw away. 

Honour. Fidelity. Old fashioned words. She thinks them anyway. 

It's funny, how Tristan's right. She wants to be here with him as much as she wants to be home again. She only wants things to be simple again, and they are. He's choosing for her, because she can't. He's choosing, and she wants to hate herself for leaving it to him. For letting him give her the easy way out. Except he loves her. He still does, and it's as natural as breathing. He loves her, even now, and there's nothing to forgive. He loves her, and she's leaving in the afternoon. That's how it's decided, just like that. She sits up, and picks up the cell phone by the bedside, and phones the airline.

He heads into the bathroom during her phone call. She's lucky. She gets booked on a two p.m. flight for San Francisco. Two p.m., which is almost like fate. When she hangs up, she notices it's already noon. He comes out of the bathroom and smiles at her, and she smiles back, and her heart constricts. He tells her they can go out to lunch and then head to the airport after. She showers, and when she's done, she finds he has assembled her belongings for her. 

They head out to a nice place a couple of blocks over. They talk easily, about city life, she asks about the nightclub. It isn't strained or odd, only sort of quiet between them. They're both thinking. Perhaps it's the finality of the decision, the ease with which it was accomplished. There's nothing to talk about, because they've discussed it already. It's nice between them, but in a good friends way. Which they are, she supposes. Friends again, things are straightforward again, and all the agony is gone, evaporated. 

They drive to the airport after, he walks with her to her gate and then it's goodbye. Their first goodbye. 

"May I?" he asks, and she's not sure what he wants, but she nods. He puts his hands on her shoulders, and then he kisses her. It's slow, but warm. Her arms lock around his neck, and his left arm snakes down around her waist, and his right hand cradles the back of her head. It ends, she's not sure when, and he only holds her tightly, her head on his shoulder. 

Then he kisses her forehead, and lets her go. She walks through the gate, and looks back, and he's standing there watching. Blue meets blue, and then she turns her head and moves forward. That's how it ends. Softly.

It's only when the plane is in the air, and the seatbelt sign is off, that she makes her way to the bathroom and sobs silently. So stupid. He loved her, and she's gone. He loved her, and they both have to go on with their lives, and she never said it back. He loved her, and they can't live happily ever after, because it's the real world. Too much time passed between them, and responsibilities they do not share. Lifestyle differences, and promises made, and morality, and trying to make one's way in the world. Little things, things that could be overcome? Sometimes we forfeit our right to try. She will be happy again, just not with him. The past has streamed on, and we must live in the present.

She drives home from the airport, and unlocks her front door, and there is Jess at the kitchen table. 

"Hi," she says. "I'm home." There is a world of meaning in those words, and he nods, because he is not a fool, and he knows she has not been in New York with Lane. Who knows where she has been? Not him, and yet she's home.

He makes coffee, and they sit down to talk, and they have a lifetime ahead of them to figure themselves out in. Together. Who does she love most? Does she know? Only it doesn't matter, because this is the life she has chosen, and she will make do. There are few absolutes in life. We all learn to muddle along somehow.

***

After she moves on, and he can't see her anymore, he leaves the airport. He gets into his car, and he drives along the coast for several hours. He pulls over, eventually, on a small backwoods road. The dusk is falling, and the Bombay will soon be open for business, but for once he won't be there. 

He turns off the engine, and pauses for a moment. Then he covers his face with his hands, and sits, body shaking. He stays there for a long time. 

***

__

On very foggy days, everything disappears outside my windows. If I try to make out any shapes, there's only my reflection, peering blindly back at me . When it's foggy, you can open the windows, and stretch your hands out, and imagine you are touching nothing. Streets, buildings, the entire city vanishes. Like the images in your head, right before you wake up. You know they were there, but they're gone suddenly. That's how I see her. Only a glimpse, before she fades away, but in that instant I see her again, waving goodbye. Always from somewhere just out of reach.


End file.
